Anitchoff was eminently a handsome Russian. His eyes were dark, and had a latent fire in them that showed some Tartar blood; the lids were full and white, the lashes long and dark. His nose was straight and thin, and his ponderous moustache was as black as his close-shaven hair, or the wolf's fur that trimmed his light blue uniform.
My costume was of the most sorry description; but a few discrepancies were made up by Vladimir Dahl, who, among other things, presented me with a full uniform, silver epaulettes and all, of the Tambrov infantry.
French is not so much spoken in Russia as people in Britain suppose; yet, luckily for me, General Baur and Anitchoff could speak it fluently.
Before proceeding to the General's I asked—
"Can you inform me, Captain Anitchoff, if parole is to be accepted?"
"I cannot say, but rather think not," he replied, with hesitation.
"The deuce!" I exclaimed, haughtily; "then I shall escape, if I can."
"Pray don't think of it," said he, earnestly.
"Why?" I demanded, with intense chagrin.
"We have rather a summary mode of dealing with prisoners who attempt to escape. So be wary, my friend."